Much Kneeded Recovery

In May, the meniscus tear was cut away and vacuumed out during a 19 minute operation. I was awake and watched the operation on the TV as the microscopic camera showed the whole technique and the grayish bone bruises on the white bone after 20 years of running. The bone bruises are more worrisome than the meniscus recovery.

The NEXT day after the operation, it was time to walk and the recovery was underway.

 Shaved knee, ready for the op.

 Post op, crutches.

 Three small holes are the only signs of the op.

 Doctors make arrows on your leg before they drug you up to confirm where the surgery should happen. I was one of 7 surgeries my doctor did that day. (Number 2)

 Stitches

 3 days later, leg bends pain free!

What operation?

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I wrote this blog post in May, a week after the operation. And at the end, I was saddened because I met with the doctor who advised I never run again. He said the bone bruises were very bad and that I was lucky to have no fragments.

About a week later, he gave me a shot of oil...a synthetic and natural mix...to lubricate the bone and the joint. The shot, with a needle seven inches long, was more painful than the operation.

I went into a bit of a funk and although the elliptical machine at the gym became my routine throughout recovery, I vowed to make it back to the treadmill by my birthday in October.

6 fat weeks in America gave me the renewed energy to work hard upon returning to Dubai in August. And finally, with toe tapping running, I began to run on the treadmill. One Phish song, every other day for 2 weeks and eventually built up to 15 straight minutes.

In September, I ran 5K's on the treadmill at speeds as fast as the pre-op times I had been doing. The euphoria at the end of each run had returned with limited pain. 

But the real enemy became mental anguish. I was slowly trying to unthink the bad thoughts I would dwell on with each step.

And then, last week, I freed my mind.

I turned 43.

I ran. Outside. Over the bridge that I had injured my knee on.

I ran through the spot where it happened, crossing the bridge of recovery into the next phase of middle aged life.

And now I feel like writing again. Like turning a page.

Like crossing a bridge.